


Run! Glorfindel saw us!

by Silence_Speaker



Series: Patchwork [7]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Elf raised Bilbo, Gen, Young Bilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:24:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2656922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silence_Speaker/pseuds/Silence_Speaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins was raised by elves in Rivendell. </p><p>Thorin is not impressed. </p><p>At all.</p><p>(Unconnected oneshots.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Asylum

**Author's Note:**

> Screwing of timelines.
> 
> Goes by the first film and the book.
> 
> It is for a prompt which I've put at the bottom so it doesn't spoil the first thousand words.
> 
> Hobbit 10 years equivalent to human 6 ½ years.
> 
> So a 17 year old hobbit would be the same as an 11 year old human child.

Bilbo’s mother and father had married at a perfectly respectable age, both 38, so a few years out of their tweens but unfortunately they hadn’t been blessed with children. The years went past with no sign of a babe being conceived and so they lost hope of a child and then, much to everyone’s surprise, Belladonna fell pregnant.

It didn’t halt the years of whispers and unintentionally cutting remarks that hit Belladonna and Bungo. The pity was nearly worse.

And then the hobbit from Bree arrived. He was a swarthy looking hobbit with dark eyes and long fingered hands and apparently a relation to one of the Tooks.

With his arrival several things started going missing from various homes. The missing items were blamed on the troop of travellers, men, that had recently set up camp in the Shire’s borders. The hobbits were on alert for the thief so when Bungo heard a noise in his luxurious hobbit hole built for his darling wife, he didn’t hesitate to investigate. 

Unfortunately for Bungo he surprised the thief and was swiftly knocked out with a harsh blow to the head from a silver candlestick wielded by the thief.

Belladonna found Bungo the next morning, blood congealed around his head and a nasty bruise blooming. Bungo never awoke. He spent two months barely alive, barely breathing before he passed away, body unable to cope any longer; they were unable to get enough sustenance into Bungo.

The only thing that kept Belladonna moving around was the new life she carried and the need to look after the growing babe. It took three weeks for Belladonna to snap.

At the funeral banquet, a time to talk of the good times with the deceased and to reminisce with joy Belladonna saw the hobbit, the swarthy featured one from Bree and she saw red. 

How dare the very murderer of her beloved husband stand there free from retribution while her husband lay six feet under? When her child would grow up fatherless?

Other hobbits described Belladonna’s flurry of attack with bemusement and shock, Belladonna with her hair flying loose and lank, eyes glittering and mouth in a snarl looked absolutely mad, completely insane. She had to be pried off the hobbit who just whimpered under her assault.

Belladonna was shunned after; no one would look her in the eyes or enquire as to her health.

It didn’t stop there. She saw the hobbit in the market and again attacked him in a fit of rage one hand protecting the slight swell of her stomach.

She had to be dragged off of him.

That was when she decided enough was enough.

If no one believed her, if no one even cared about her or the life of the babe then she would leave. Leave the smial filled with memories of Bungo.

Belladonna bit her lip quelling her tears, tears wouldn’t help her now. This didn’t stop them trailing down her face as she packed taking some of Bungo’s things ignoring the impracticality, they were precious to Bungo and so doubly so to her. 

Just because she had made up her mind did not mean she was pleased about the decision.

So Belladonna stole away from the Shire, her home, the land she was raised in and had been born in to travel to Rivendell, home of the elves. 

Gandalf had mentioned once that travellers were welcome and that Lord Elrond was a skilled healer. Belladonna placed her hopes in the Elf lord she had never met but read about in few books. She would seek asylum in Rivendell.

It was what some elves had done before...she just hoped this courtesy extended to hobbits.

She kept off the road but didn’t stray too far from it. It was hard going.

She almost didn’t make it, many a time only the thought of her unborn child keeping her going, she ate despite the fact she could only taste ash on her tongue, she trudged forward barely feeling the warmth the travelling cloak provided, shivering from the bitter cold wind.

It took Belladonna nearly a month of travelling before she made it to Rivendell.

She stumbled across the narrow bridge over a magnificent river than she could not properly appreciate in her exhausted state.

A tall elf with long dark hair and a circlet upon his brow met her there, looking at her swaying trembling form and bulging belly with warming sympathy.

“Come, seek rest. You are welcome in Rivendell.” The elf murmured in Westron, holding out an arm to lead her.

Belladonna clung to the arm tighter than was probably polite but the elf didn’t say anything, instead he gripped her tighter with his other arm then swung her up so he was carrying her limp weight.

Belladonna blinked fuzzily then succumbed to the black spots dancing in the corner of her vision. 

She didn’t notice as strong arms cradled her carefully, placing her upon a bed softer than any she had known before, or when curious melodious voices swarmed nor the examination Lord Elrond, as a healer, gave her and the unborn babe.

It was four days before Belladonna awoke.

Belladonna’s first thought when waking was that she and Bungo must have drunk far too much of her cousins moonshine last night (her head was thumping and her mouth dry), before the events of the last few months caught up with her. 

Belladonna moaned in pain, the heartache a literal wound in her breast before a barrage of teeth rattling coughs consumed her attention. 

She hacked away with a raspy bone jangling cough, a last gift from the freezing weather and her trek. May wasn’t usually so cold, was Belladonna’s absent thought as she collapsed into darkness again, her coughing fit having sapped her strength.

And so Belladonna lived her life in the Last Homely House west of the sea under the expert care of Lord Elrond. She was well cared for, in fact the elves seemed curious about her, they didn’t usually see Halflings and she was pregnant, most elves, she learnt, adored children and were eagerly awaiting the birth of her little one.

So she didn’t lack for company as they came to speak with her, ask questions about Hobbits that she returned with questions about elves.

But despite the care, the toll taken on Belladonna’s body was massive. She was no longer in the prime of youth, crippled by grief, pregnant at an age where most hobbit women couldn’t conceive anymore and travelling through the winter/ early spring had destroyed her strength sapped at her resilience.

Just walking up the stairs winded her to the point Belladonna had to sit down for at least ten minutes at a time. The duration of Belladonna’s pregnancy was spent bedbound and a lot of her time after the birth was also spent in bed.

She named her son Bilbo, close to her husband’s name but far enough away that she didn’t flinch when speaking it.

 

#

 

Elladan watched his brother Elrohir hold the squirming bundle. 

A head of curly hair popped out of the end of the blanket the babe was held in, followed by one bright, honey-coloured eye.

Elladan locked eyes with the small fauntling and watched in fascination as the little ones eyes bugged out slightly and the squirming restarted in earnest.

“Hold still, little one!” Elrohir pleaded and if you knew him well you would catch the slight hint of panic in his voice. Elladan, who knew his twin the best, laughed at him.

“Gah.” Came the baby’s reply as an arm escaped the confines of the dreaded blanket and waved around nearly hitting Elrohir in the nose.

“What do I do? He refuses to go to sleep, even though it is his bedtime...I tried rocking him, feeding him, making sure his undergarments weren’t soiled, giving him one of his toys-” 

“Why are you asking me? The babe cried when he was in my arms.” Elladan interrupted, chuckling at the abject misery Elrohir was displaying.

“That was because you held him upside down. Something I doubt even you would enjoy.”

After another ten minutes of attempts to make the baby take his nap and Elladan was nearly on the floor howling with laughter at his brother’s fate. When he finally managed to breathe properly he spoke.

“Why not give him to adar (father)? He’s got three children; surely he knows what to do.” He suggested. The baby gave a slight squall then quietened as he caught a chubby fist full of Elrohir’s long dark hair.

“No!” 

Elladan blinked at his brother’s forceful disagreement.

“He said we had to make the baby take his nap, it is like a test. Probably...And he’s in that important council meeting with the delegate from Lothlórien.” Elrohir explained.

They sat there, on the floor of the fauntling’s nursery, minds running over various possibilities and ways to get the baby to go to sleep.

“I suppose taking him to visit the archers is a bad idea...”

“He might like the horses!”

“He also might _not_ like the horses. And, even worse, what if the horses don’t like _him_?”

“Maybe we should sing?”

“Us? Singing? I think you knocked some of your brains out that last yrch (orc) skirmish, muindor ((dear) brother), you know our singing is neither the best nor the most soothing.”

“At least I wasn’t the one to gain an yrch _scratch_.”

“It was a proper battle wound! And it was only because I was saving you, you ingrate.”

‘Sniff’. “As if I needed saving.”

“Maybe one day, in the far distant future, that will be true, _little_ brother.”

“Hey! I’m only a minute younger. I’m still taller though.”

“What?! No you’re not, we’re the same height you-”

“Look!”

They both stopped their quibbling and stared at the baby peaceably slumbering in Elrohir’s arms one small hand gripping a hank of hair tightly.

Elrohir stood slowly, making sure not to jostle the babe (who had _finally_ gone to sleep) and carefully placed him in his little wooden cot, rocking it gently with his arm.

They stayed, leaning over the cot, just watching the baby inhale and exhale, face lax in sleep and honey golden curls in disarray. 

“If you say ‘aww’ I will thump y-”

“Shh! Do you want him to wake up?!”

“Come on, let’s leave him to his slumber and go see if Glorfindel has gotten old in his dotage.” Elrohir whispered, standing up tall.

Well, he attempted to stand up straight but the baby’s fist still clutching a lock of hair prevented him.

He blinked looking down at the unaware fauntling.

Elladan stifled a chuckle.

Elrohir tried to gently remove his hair but even in sleep the baby’s grip tightened and a small crease of a frown crossed the smooth forehead.

“Well, muindor, it seems you’re stuck. I’ll see you later. And by the way, I am taller than you.” Elladan grinned dashing out of the room. Elrohir couldn’t chase after him whilst stuck to the baby so he settled for cursing.

Quietly, so little innocent ears didn’t get besmirched.

“How long can you hold onto my hair, little one? I know it is glorious but you do have your own head of hair that also rather magnificent...do you really need mine too? I mean, the colour is off, it doesn’t match your hair at all!...Please?”

Elrohir sighed as the baby simply rolled over slightly in sleep, pulling his hair with him.

He settled, standing over the cot, slightly hunched over and prepared himself for a painfully boring next couple of hours or so.

Why did the patience his adar (father) have in abundance, have to skip a generation?

 

#

 

Erestor watched, torn between worry for the book and worry for the small child who carried it, as little Bilbo lugged the tome, almost bigger than he himself, over to the table and dropped it with a ‘thump’ onto the table.

Erestor opened his mouth to rebuke the youngling for his careless treatment of a book but the apologetic glance sent his way made him shut his mouth without saying a word.

The book had been too heavy for the boy then.

“’Estor where’s Imladys?” The fauntling asked in his clear piping voice, tilting his head to the side in confusion.

“Imladris, I presume you mean, and do you mean where on the map it is?” He asked pulling the heavy book, filled with maps of Middle Earth, closer and flipping it open to get to the mare detailed ones that covered less land area.

Bilbo nodded, clambering onto the chair next to his, and perching himself on the wooden armrest.

Erestor bit back the urge to tell the little boy to sit properly. Then he glanced at the height of the table and realised Bilbo wouldn’t be able to see if he actually sat in the chair like he should.

He should fix that. Maybe get a higher chair built for the fauntling, or several large cushions.

He might not grow very tall; Belladonna was very short, so they could be used when he grew as well...

“Now, Imladris is situated next to...”

Erestor glanced at the young hobbit as he felt a warm pressure against his arm. Bilbo had fallen asleep sprawled in the chair, his head resting upon Erestor’s arm.

Erestor slowly closed the book, from where he had been describing the fall of Gondolin to the interested child.

He looked at the large library windows only to see the sun setting outside.

All in all, it had been a pleasant few hours. Bilbo seemed to have the ability to sit down and listen...something Elladan and Elrohir still lacked today.

He wouldn’t mind future visits from the eager listener another time, he thought to himself. 

Fears of sticky hands tearing up books forgotten as he absently ran a hand through the soft sun dusted curls. 

Did the little hobbit know his spirit shone such a pure colour?

 

#

 

“Now, you hold the bow like this, with your feet planted shoulder width apart.” Elladan instructed, adjusting the ten year olds grip. Bilbo nodded seriously and concentrating so hard his tongue just poked out of his mouth, he notched the bow with one of the arrows carved especially for Bilbo’s small bow.

“That’s right.” Elladan stepped back. “Now draw it when you’re ready, remember to keep relaxed and when you aim it at the target remember not to look down the shaft of the arrow but a little bit higher.”

Bilbo nodded and pulled the string back.

“What would happen if I fired up?” Bilbo asked pointing his bow to the sky.

“No!”

“No!” 

The twins exclaimed at the same time rushing forwards to try and stop Bilbo but it was too late. Bilbo let go of the string at the shouts, in surprise. The twins watched the arrow go up, and up, and up before almost lazily arching and plummeting back to the earth.

They breathed a sigh of relief that the arrow wasn’t going to land too close to them and the hobbit child.

They looked to where the arrow should land and both their eyes widened.

“Look ou-”

“Glorfind-”

“Yeouch!!” 

“Oops.” The brothers breathed in unison. 

“Come along Bilbo; let us get out of here.” Elrohir urged shoving the bow and arrows at his brother and picking up the boy before running away.

Elladan stood there, the bow hanging from his lax grip as he stared at Glorfindel who was hopping about clutching at his foot and shouting obscenities.

He gulped when Glorfindel turned to see where the arrow had come from and quickly dashed away, dropping the bow in his haste and cursing his brother for leaving him behind to take the flack.

 

#

 

“That’s right dear.”

“But...seven?!”

Belladonna laughed; her voice cutting through the air in a pleasant chime-different from the elves laughter. It was earthier, solid, while when the elves laughed it reminded Bilbo of a summer’s breeze.

He leaned back against his mother’s legs and hummed as her hand carded through his hair.

“But how can they eat seven meals a day? Where does it all go?” Bilbo asked scrunching up his brow in confusion.

“I used to eat seven meals a day, you know, it’s not such a hard feat for hobbits.” Belladonna chuckled again.

“It isn’t exactly seven meals...not really, but each one is bigger than a snack so can’t be called such. First breakfast and dinner are typically the largest meals in the day whilst things like lunch can be simply a single seed cake, second breakfast could be a scone or two. Having said this though, hobbits do eat more than elves and men from what I’ve seen. I don’t know about dwarves.”

Bilbo frowned, considering. 

“Doesn’t it take up a lot of time though?” He asked, befuddled. When he had been down to the kitchens to help make some tarts it had taken _ages_ and he had run off before they were cooked to go and play in the flowers outside.

“Not really if the things are in the pantry. But a lot of hobbits enjoy cooking and do spend a lot of time doing so. Usually if the husband is a farmer say, then he will work in the fields and his wife will do the cooking when he’s working, so it all fits in. Or vice versa, if the wife works then the husband will cook. Sometimes siblings, cousins or even friends live together in a smial and share the tasks.” Belladonna explained with a tolerant smile, tinged with a little regret.

As much as she adored Rivendell, the Shire was her home and she would have loved to bring Bilbo up there. Bilbo however had grown up in Rivendell, he had no other home.

“It still sounds like a lot of hassle.” Bilbo muttered. Belladonna smiled with amusement. Her son sounded a lot older than he was from his speech. She supposed that was what happened when he grew up with other adults, no other children around.

Another thing to feel regret for.

“It isn’t much different to how you eat, dear; you have a snack between breakfast and lunch, a snack in the afternoon and a snack before bed along with three meals. So technically you have six meals a day.” Belladonna winked at her faunt as his brow wrinkled once more.

She barely ate three meals a day now, asleep so much that she just couldn’t muster up enough energy to eat let alone feel hungry.

Bilbo’s cheek puffed out slightly as he thought over his mother’s words.

Belladonna’s smile turned bittersweet. He reminded her so much of Bungo at times, it was both a source of comfort and pain. She ruffled his hair.

“Now, why don’t you tell me why Glorfindel has been on a rampage the last few days and why he had to seek medical treatment last week...he’s been like a bear with a sore head!”

Bilbo flushed and toyed with the covers.

“Um...”

 

#

 

“What does ‘dead’ mean?” Bilbo asked curiously. Elrond resisted the urge to grimace. Not a subject he would have chosen to talk about. He handed the child a handkerchief when he sniffed.

He was rewarded with a smile. Elrond knew he wouldn’t see that handkerchief back. He never did. Bilbo seemed to hoard them with the intensity of a dragon guarding its gold.

Erestor had been highly amused. Right up until he couldn’t find a single one out of the dozens he had had in his room.

“When someone, or an animal, dies it means that they are walking in the halls of our ancestors. But once you have travelled there it means you can not return.” Elrond explained in greatly simplified terms. Bilbo was far too young to understand let alone comprehend death as a concept yet.

The elves as a whole had difficulty with this generally anyway.

Bilbo frowned.

“What if they want to travel back home? To those they left behind?”

“They can not. It is not by their choice, to enter the realm of their ancestors, the afterlife, but it is a one way trip.” Elrond almost winced at how badly he was mashing up the truth in order to try and get Bilbo to understand at least in part.

“So it’s like they’re asleep but they can’t ever wake up?” Bilbo asked eyes wide. Elrond nodded.

Bilbo sniffed again then used the handkerchief when Elrond glanced pointedly.

“That’s mean. So not even a prince kissing the princess will wake them up?” Bilbo asked, genuinely. Elrond’s lips twitched. Belladonna told Bilbo the oddest of fairytales. 

“No. But those who die never truly leave us, so long as you remember them.” Elrond smiled, bittersweet.

Bilbo tilted his head to the side, edging closer to the fire.

“Ahchoo!”

The little hobbit sniffled as he pressed yet another handkerchief to his face.

“Why sneezy?” He grizzled, his normally excellent grammar (courtesy of Erestor) deteriorating along with his good health.

“Because you are sick, little one.” Elrond answered patiently, for the fifth time that hour.

“Cold, cold, cold. Whys it cold? An’ head ‘urts, make it stop, pease daddy.” The small child, small even for a hobbit according to Belladonna, whined.

It would have taken a man (or elf) of sterner heart to tell the child then that he wasn’t his father. The child saw him as one and that was all that mattered.

Elrond smiled at the boy and tested the heat of his forehead.

His smile disappeared and he bade the boy open his throat so that he could examine it.

“Come on, little one, let’s visit your mother.” Elrond attempted a smile, it felt like a grimace.

“Mummy?” Bilbo asked tiredly, for once not protesting that he was a big boy now when Elrond picked him up and carried him into the infirmary, where Belladonna usually stayed before of her ailing health.

“That’s right. I’ll take you to your mummy, but you’ve got to be a good boy and rest a lot and drink any of the teas I give you to make you nice and strong.” Elrond murmured as he walked swiftly down the halls.

The little hobbit was shivering despite feeling unnaturally warm.

He put Bilbo in a bed next to his mother. Belladonna spent most of her time sleeping now, waking up now and then with requests for her son to be brought to her.

Elrond sensed (and Belladonna knew) that she was not long for this world. She hadn’t been in true good health since before Bilbo was born and the birth had had a heavy toll on the hobbit woman.

Grief, winter cold and a harsh fever/cough had destroyed what little health she may have gained.

Even walking up a flight of steps became difficult for Belladonna, she spent far more time in bed than on her feet during the waking hours when Bilbo turned three and this time spent bedbound had just increased as she steadily grew more frail.

And the cough that lingered did her no favours. Nothing Elrond tried could remove the hacking cough so he settled for alleviating the pain and tax on Bella’s body.

The thought of returning to the Shire was a mere daydream. Belladonna was barely strong enough to walk outside and Elrond advised against taking her in a cart.

Elrond spent the next few days solely in the company of his two most frequent patients and also the two only hobbits in Rivendell. 

Bilbo was prone to chills, all year round, no matter the weather. Although they did occur more in the cooler months. 

Elrond could count on both hands the number of times Bilbo had been petulant or in a distemper and all of those times had been because he was ill.

Elrond didn’t know how the lad was as unspoilt as he seemed, indulged by everyone. But then again, Belladonna did say that hobbit children were treated in much the same way in the Shire and yet rarely did this corrupt their sweet natures.

Maybe it was a hobbit thing.

Elladan and Elrohir had been brats when they were Bilbo’s age (roughly, elves aged slower than hobbits), although Arwen had been somewhat better.

Bilbo shifted on his bed, sleeping with the restlessness of the feverish. Elrond ran a hand through Bilbo’s curls soothingly until the little hobbit settled.

Bilbo always seemed so much smaller when he was sick, so much frailer...

When he was awake he was constantly getting into mischief (the harmless kind, unless Elladan and Elrohir were involved), or chattering endearingly about the oddest of things, he seemed so bright, so alive that you tended to forget how small the little faunt was.

Belladonna had mentioned once or twice, in undertone to the healer, that Bilbo was smaller than most faunts his age, but not so much that it was worrying. Elrond speculated that the circumstances of Bilbo’s birth had long lasting consequences.

Bilbo seemed fine, apart from the occasional chill-but all children got sick at times- so he pushed the matter from his mind and picked up the gradually cooling infusion taking it over to Bilbo, preparing himself to get a grumpy little boy to take his medicine.

Maybe he should get his sons to do it instead?

It would be a good learning experience...

Elrond eventually managed to get the child to drink his medicine. Eventually.

A cough from the other bed had him moving over to Belladonna’s prone form. They had probably woken her with all the fuss at trying to get Bilbo to drink the tea. 

Willow bark didn’t taste nice but it was good with fevers and a pain reducer. Bilbo wouldn’t be complaining about a headache soon.

“Is he- _cough_ \- alright?” Belladonna fought for breath amidst the harsh wracking coughs that tore through her unmercifully.

Elrond carefully fed her some water; she woke so little now that it was imperative that she drink every time she did wake.

He would prefer to give her something more nourishing, like honey sweetened milk, however that would just worsened the coughs. Milk was never good for someone with congestion of the lungs.

So instead, when he could, he gave her strengthening teas.

“Bilbo will be fine. He just has a chill, a slight fever that came with a cold. He will be fine, miserable, but fine soon enough. Do not exert yourself with worry.” Elrond soothed. He was far more concerned with the state of Belladonna’s health than with Bilbo’s.

Bilbo wasn’t the one at deaths door.

He didn’t tell her not to worry, she was the lad’s mother, but it would not do for her to tax her body unnecessarily.

“He gets these - _cough_ \- chills – _cough_ \- far too – _cough_ \- often.” Belladonna managed to get out, her back, shoulders and head elevated so as to make coughing easier on her body.

It worried Elrond when she coughed up blood. There was nothing he could do for that particular ailment.

A sword cut? Sure. Just clean thoroughly, bind with a poultice of herbs relevant to the situation and check it regularly so as to make sure it didn’t get infected. If unable to access the herb stores then apply honey and mouldy bread to the wound to starve off infection. There was always a store of mouldy bread at the ready in the infirmary, it was surprisingly effective. 

Not nearly as useful as Kingsfoil though. But that grew scarce in most places.

“Hmmm.” Elrond agreed. “They do not seem to be harmful in the long run.” He added when Belladonna frowned.

Elrond was right. The next few days they had a miserable little hobbit instead of the usual cheerful bundle of joy but he was soon over his bad cold and scampering about, refusing to stay in bed and laughing again.

Belladonna seemed pleased but as health brightened her son’s cheeks and lit his energy it seemed to leech out of her. Her cheeks already wan and thin became positively ghostly and gaunt.

Her coughing filled the infirmary from dawn till dusk and all through the night.

Elrond worked tirelessly, trying new concoctions, various different chest plasters, poultices aimed at clearing the chest and easing coughs.

It didn’t seem to do much.

Bilbo, even in his young age, seemed to understand that he had to be even gentler with his frail mother, even quieter and he didn’t get cross when she fell asleep halfway through telling him a story or when her hands trembled when they tried to move a chess piece.

Elrond had come upon them more than once to find them in a parody of their usual positions. 

Instead of Bilbo leaning against his mother, his hair being stroked, Bilbo often knelt on the bed one small hand holding his mothers with even more care than an elf would hold a simaril his other hand gently running through the straggly thin almost white hair that no longer curled atop his mothers head. Shorn short for ease and greater comfort.

And one day, about three weeks after Bilbo had been released from the infirmary; Belladonna simply drifted off and didn’t wake.

Imladris, for the first time in a long while, filled with morning songs and they held a funeral for the departed hobbit woman.

Bilbo was silent. Completely silent.

He drifted through the expansive halls with footfalls even the keenest ear of an elf couldn’t hear. More often than not, Elrond found him curled in the small hobbit bed in the infirmary that his mother had spent the last few years of her life in.

It was the only hobbit bed there and had been made especially for Belladonna who was well known and friendly with all in Imladris. Even bedbound there was a spark of vitality to her that drew the elves.

Her son too possessed this same bright life that was still innocent despite all seen. Pure, almost.

Bilbo stood beside him throughout the funeral, ignoring the proceedings as he stared intently but without sight at the flower bed. It was only halfway through the rite when Elrond noticed the tears streaming down the little ones face.

He squeezed the small shoulder, bending down to reach, and Bilbo tucked his head into Elrond’s knee, clutching at his trousers desperately.

He still uttered no sound.

 

“Mother didn’t want to leave, did she?” Bilbo asked all too quietly, his voice hoarse from not using it much, if at all, in the last month.

“No, she did not. She wanted to watch you grow up, to watch you live and be happy but it was not her choice to depart so soon.” Elrond said truthfully. 

That had been one of Belladonna’s regrets, one she had voiced to Elrond many a time, that she was not fit enough to run around the grass outside, romp about pretending to slay dragons, that she would not live to see Bilbo come of age.

He was only ten.

Bilbo nodded, his chin wobbling.

“I miss her.” Bilbo mumbled into Elrond’s chest as he was hugged by his beloved ada.

“I know. I miss her too.” Elrond ran a soothing hand through Bilbo’s curls.

“I wish I didn’t know what dead meant.” Bilbo muttered, hiding his face in Elrond’s shoulder as they sat under the moon in the flower garden.

Elrond wished the same.

He had a statue commissioned in Belladonna’s likeness. Bilbo asked for it to be ‘planted’ in amongst the flowers.

The small flowerbed became Bilbo’s to tend to and add flowers of his choosing. There was always a sprig of deadly nightshade at the small statue’s feet. Elrond warned Bilbo about how poisonous the belladonna plant was.

Eating a single leaf or a single berry would be enough to kill Bilbo (and anyone else). 

It brought a glint of amusement to Bilbo’s eyes that his mother, his loving mischievous mother, was named after such a deadly plant.

 

#

 

Elrond listened attentively as he was informed of the comings and goings of the supplies brought to Imladris.

He quickly stopped listening when he heard the now familiar sound of bright laughter from a child mixed with the hushed chuckles coming from two or more adults.

It brought a smile to his lips almost unconsciously. Imladris was a far brighter place when a child inhabited the beautiful architecture.

“My lord?” Lindir questioned, head tilted just to the side.

Elrond heard the laughter abruptly cut off and he resisted the urge to run for the hills. If what they were planning was anything like the time with the honey, feathers, stables and the ginger then he wanted nothing to do with it.

(Maybe he could organise a hunt? Or a scouting mission that he just _had_ to attend? Anything to escape the chaos that was Elladan, Elrohir and Bilbo pranking...it was worse when they managed to get Glorfindel to join in.)

“My apologies; do carry on.” Elrond smiled but directed them in the opposite direction of the laughter and what sounded (worryingly) like furniture being ripped apart.

Lindir shot him a bemused look but accepted the change in direction without comment, continuing his talk of the grain stores.

Elrond never did find out what exactly the trio of madness spreaders were planning as later that day Imladris received two rather unusual visitors.

Elrond almost had a flashback to when Belladonna arrived.

Both women had been fleeing people they thought of as kin, and both came with children.

Well, Gilraen arrived with her two year old son, Aragorn, instead of being pregnant but Elrond did not dismiss the similarities.

And most importantly, both women came seeking sanctuary. An asylum for safety, for their children more than for themselves.

It did not take Bilbo long to realise they had guests. It took even less time for him to find them, in the dining hall, curious.

Elrond was hard pressed not to laugh when Bilbo just stared at the toddling Aragorn. Bilbo had never seen anyone younger than him, apart from in pictures.

“A Halfling child.” Gilraen whispered, looking at Bilbo curiously, yet managing to keep one eye on Aragorn just in case.

Bilbo either didn’t hear her or ignored her. He just stood there, staring at Aragorn who was sitting on the stone floor sucking his own hand.

“Bilbo, where are your manners?” Elrond chided gently, more amused than anything.

“I washed my hands.” Bilbo said, putting his hands up for display. Elrond chuckled. That was not what he had meant.

He wondered if Bilbo had even realised Gilraen was sitting there, next to Elrond. He seemed oblivious to all as he sat in front of the toddler and just watched him in fascination.

“I apologise, this is the first time he has seen someone younger than him.” Elrond informed her.

Gilraen did not seem offended in the least.

“Bilbo, this is Gilraen. She and her son will be residing in Imladris for the foreseeable future.” Elrond informed him, giving up on Bilbo snapping out of his daze and introducing himself.

Bilbo hummed, not taking his eyes off the child who was determinedly approaching the small hobbit in a half crawl half walk. Bilbo grinned as the child plopped down in front of him and pulled something small out of his pocket, handing it to the babe.

Aragorn took the little wooden horse from Bilbo before summarily shoving it into his mouth and gumming it happily.

Bilbo’s grin widened and a chubby fist caught his finger and held on tightly.

“Is he staying here with his parents?” Gilraen asked, nodding towards Bilbo, with some concern. She had already told him that she was in hiding; she didn’t want knowledge of her or Aragorn staying here to spread.

“Bilbo lives here. He has done all his life. His mother appeared one winter, pregnant with him and running for her freedom. Sadly she was greatly weakened by this and passed away seven years ago.” Elrond explained.

Gilraen’s eyes widened and then softened as they landed upon her son and Bilbo playing together with the spit covered wooden horse. Elrond handed Bilbo some chopped up fruit and told him to feed ‘Estel’, the name she had agreed to call Aragorn for his safety.

Gilraen watched as, unendingly patient and gentle, Bilbo handed Aragorn the pieces of fruit, making it into a game when Aragorn seemed far more interested in playing than eating.

The fruit was a treasure they had to valiantly take from the evil orcs who had stolen it in the first place.

She found herself smiling at the scene, even more so as the two children’s laughter filled the room.

“How old is he?” Gilraen asked once the meal was done with and Bilbo had claimed his own lunch, sharing with Aragorn when he eyed it jealously.

“Seventeen in hobbit years which is the equivalent of an eleven year old man child.” Elrond answered.

“I thought he was younger.” Gilraen murmured. “He is so small.”

“He is a hobbit.” Elrond reminded her. “He is just a bit smaller than the average hobbit faunt his age, but he may grow.”

Bilbo walked over, Aragorn having fallen asleep on the hobbit’s jacket that he had laid on the floor for the baby.

_“Why is he named ‘hope’, father?”_ Bilbo asked in Sindarin. He knew Sindarin better than he did Westron and it was his most used language.

“Because to some people that is what he represents. Try to speak Westron in front of our guests, it is more polite and will further your ability in speaking it.” Elrond answered. 

Gilraen did not know how to speak Sindarin and the chances were that Aragorn had never heard it before.

Generally Bilbo spoke in the language people addressed him with but he slipped into Sindarin sometimes by accident.

“Aren’t you supposed to meet Erestor for a lesson?” Elrond asked. Bilbo’s eyes widened and with one last glance at the sleeping baby he dashed from the room, his bare feet not making a noise on the smooth floor.

Elrond felt like chuckling or informing Bilbo of his breach with manners.

It was not two seconds later when the lad in question skidded back into the room.

“Sorry that was rude. It was nice to meet you Mrs Gilraen and Estel.” Bilbo said with a neat bow before he sped out of the room once more.

Elrond laughed.

 

#

 

Bilbo and Estel were inseparable.

Where one was you would inevitably find the other nearby.

When Bilbo had his lessons Estel had his, so even then they were both in the library or the study that had been turned into a school room when Bilbo was still a baby.

Gilraen reminded Bilbo a little of his mother. Not because she was female but because they both had a love of life, laughter and joy that was similar. 

Estel called Elrond ‘ada’ too, so they were siblings of a sort.

Elladan and Elrohir were glad to have another mischief maker to join to their ranks, when they returned from the orc hunts that took up most of their time.

The twins disappeared for months at a time, going on long hunts. Sometimes with Glorfindel but most of the time not.

“Parry, side step, parry, parry, move your feet!”

Barked orders along with the sound of metal striking metal filled the usually tranquil gardens.

Bilbo watched from the sidelines as Glorfindel taught Estel how to swordfight. 

Glorfindel had attempted to teach Bilbo years ago but after more than a few bruises he refused to teach Bilbo anymore saying he didn’t want to hurt him and maybe they could retry in a few years.

Bilbo would be a liar if he didn’t say he was relieved. Sword fighting was _not_ his forte.

This was not true for Estel however.

Glorfindel refused to teach using wooden swords because he said it didn’t help you learn to dodge properly and slowed your reflexes. Bilbo had been less than pleased when he was handed a steel sword made for his smaller height. The amount of times he nearly lopped off his own toes!

Bilbo was better at long range weapons, like a bow or a sling. Elladan and Elrohir had gifted him with a set of throwing knives, carefully crafted for his smaller build. They slotted quite nicely into the hem of his usual tunic.

He couldn’t say he was really keen with learning to use weapons though...he much preferred his history lessons with Erestor.

He stood up when Lindir dashed across the grass. Lindir never dashed anywhere. Ever. He always walked sedately.

“Glorfindel! The scouts! They have spotted orcs nearby. Lord Elrond is riding out.” 

Estel and Bilbo shared a look. They knew that no amount of pleading would get them allowed to join the squad in riding out and Bilbo wasn’t even sure he _wanted_ to ride out and fight orcs.

Estel had a longing look on his face and when he and Bilbo put away the training swords (still made of steel but Glorfindel said they weren’t fit for a battlefield).

The horses rode out with a clatter of hooves on the stone. Bilbo grimaced. He had never taken to riding, he preferred his feet firmly on the ground, thank-you-very-much.

“I wish I could go.” Estel moaned.

“You’ll be able to go soon enough, just another ten years.” Bilbo soothed.

“Hmpf. Ten years is ages!”

“Are you calling me old? I’ll have you know I am two and a half decades old.” Bilbo sniffed, faux offended.

“Why, you’re positively ancient!” Estel teased back.

“Race you to the kitchens!” Bilbo exclaimed already running off. It was lunch time and besides, a race would distract Estel from the orc hunt going on.

“Hey! You cheated!”

Bilbo laughed but didn’t turn his head to look behind. Estel was taller than him by more than a foot and faster too. He needed every advantage just to keep up.

Whilst Estel might be faster Bilbo was definitely wilier. 

He proved this as he used several deft manoeuvres to slow up Estel.

As it was they reached the kitchen door at near enough the same time.

“To the winner goes the spoils.” Bilbo grinned.

“You cheated.” Estel grumbled good naturedly. He knew Bilbo would share any and everything.

They had a quiet lunch, chattering with each other and the cooks as they sat on the counter munching away.

It was just as they were putting their dishes on the side when a messenger came to tell the cooks to prepare lunch for fourteen guests and Lord Elrond.

What was even more unusual was the fact that these guests were _dwarves_.

Bilbo and Estel shared a wide eyed look. They had never seen a dwarf before!

They snuck away before one of the elves spotted them and sent them to Gilraen to be kept out of the way of the guests.

They watched the dwarves eating, sitting on the balcony. They looked so different! They had beards longer than Bilbo’s (and Estel’s) hair and elaborately styled. One Dwarf had his in a star shape.

And they were small!

Just a little bit taller than Bilbo...

The shortest person Bilbo had come in contact with (apart from himself) was his mother. The elves were all quite tall and as was Gilraen.

The dwarves seemed to possess no table manners at all and if Bilbo and Estel weren’t so fascinated they might have been indignant at the insult to their father, but for now everything was marvellous.

Bilbo glanced at the tables, surprised there was no meat served. He glanced at his father and grinned.

The dwarves were being rather hostile, or at the least quite rude and so his father had ordered a meat free lunch. A prank pulled on those being rude to their host.

It was fair enough and it wasn’t like Elrond was serving something rotten or inedible at the table, the food was very good in fact and fresh greens was something greatly enjoyed by most elves so technically it could be seen as a compliment to their guests...

“Is that Mithrandir?” Bilbo breathed, staring at the man clothed in grey and a bright blur scarf along with a long staff with a gnarled end.

Estel, who had been gaping as some of the dwarves tossed round food like it was an inflated pigs bladder used in children’s games, turned and stared.

“He doesn’t look very wizardy.” Estel murmured in disbelief. Bilbo’s lips twitched.

“Well, well, look who we have here.” A voice from behind had them spinning round in surprise and near overbalancing in their haste.

Estel yelped as he fumbled with his grip, scrabbling as he pitched downwards.

Bilbo grabbed Estel’s upper arms, hooking his feet in the rails of the balcony they had been sitting atop of.

Bilbo had miscalculated slightly; Estel was both taller and heavier than him...so he only delayed the fall before he too began to tip.

Strong arms latched around his waist and both he and Estel were pulled up and back onto the safer ground of the balcony.

Glorfindel looked at them (once he had set them standing firmly on their own two feet) sternly.

“How many times have you been told not to sit on top of the balcony rail?” Glorfindel asked rhetorically, arms crossed.

Estel shifted in place sheepishly while Bilbo snuck a glance at the hall.

It seemed their slight commotion hadn’t gone unnoticed as nearly everyone was looking up at the balcony.

Not good. Estel wasn’t supposed to meet strangers to Imladris. It was dangerous for him.

“Glorfindel, take my sons to Gilraen.” Elrond ordered, speaking in Sindarin so the dwarves didn’t understand them. 

Bilbo glanced curiously at the dwarves; did any of them understand Sindarin?

The majority seemed not to but there was one dwarf, thinner than most and with the shortest braids of the group apart from two, with a quill tucked into the knitwear of his jumper, who seemed to study them with more interest once Elrond had spoken.

Glorfindel dragged them off to Gilraen for a lecture. Bilbo and Estel shared a look of dread.

 

#

 

Bilbo did feel guilty about leaving with the dwarves, only a small note stating his intentions left on his bedside table.

He wondered what Estel would say, if he survived this.

Probably nothing good.


	2. Outtake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be crack.
> 
> It kind of isn't any more.

Thorin glowered at the ground, the grass, the sky...anything in front of him to be honest.

Although going to Rivendell had proved fortuitous (dam wizard) in that Elrond was able to read the moon runes it had brought far more headaches than needed. And the elves.

It was there that they had acquired their...burglar.

If he could be called that.

Admittedly managing to steal from both Nori and the Wizard was impressive but that still didn’t make the small creature useful at stealing from a _dragon_.

And he had lived with elves.

He was positively elvish...just without the height and age.

A Halfling for Mahal’s sake.

Gandalf had insisted that Bilbo Baggins, son of Lord Elrond ( _elves_ ), join their quest as the official burglar.

Nori had been quite put out by that. Well, up until he realised that the ‘official burglar’ had to sneak in under Smaug’s nose if the giant worm was still there. Then he became practically cheery.

Thorin stopped them to make camp, night was looming. They spread out their packs in the places they were to sleep (no sleep mats for them, travelling light meant leaving all but the bare necessities, like food and water) and what did Thorin care if the Halfling was left at the edges, unsure where to put his own pack. He also didn’t care that no one else seemed to be paying any attention to the burglar. 

He had chosen to accompany them and Thorin thought it a ridiculous idea. Better that the Halfling be ostracised and choose to return to the elf dwelling now and not be a burden on The Company.

Eventually it seemed Bofur took pity on the hobbit and put his pack next to his and engaged him in conversation.

Thorin also didn’t care that by the time they all found the softest bit of ground to curl up on the Halfling was shivering in the cool air. 

Maybe it would make him go back to Rivendell.

 

#

 

Thorin resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

What did he care if someone had taken pity on the Halfling in the night and covered him up with a cloak near double the length of the Halfling himself.

Maybe Nori had pinched the cloak from the elf settlement (it was much too large to be made for any but man or elf) and then put it on the hobbit when he was asleep.

“Hurry up.” He ordered, setting off at a brisk pace.

Throughout the days march Thorin couldn’t help but feel like he was being watched, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled but whenever he looked around there was no one but The Company and the Halfling and none of them were staring at him.

It was decidedly unnerving and Thorin felt his irritation peak.

Every voice raised in conversation stabbed at his tightly strung nerves and when his nephews burst out into laughter he dam near jumped.

He relaxed his hold on his sword hilt and turned to glare at Fili and Kili...and the Halfling who was walking along chatting happily with his nephews.

Didn’t he realise this was a dangerous quest? Not a walking holiday!

The feeling didn’t abate as they slowly drew to the foot of the mountains and more odd happenstances occurred.

The Halfling woke up with a set of small knives that he clearly recognised placed on his chest, wrapped in leather.

It was with some surprise as Thorin watched the Halfling handle the knives competently and put them inside the hem of his _elvish_ tunic.

Then the next day there was a set of six arrows just the right size to add to the quiver the Halfling carried which had only been half filled until then.

It was quite clearly baffling the Halfling (and most of the dwarves).

Thorin just assumed one of them was far more of a softie than they let on.

And this _kept on happening_!

The night watch said they saw nothing out of the ordinary.

And the back of his neck kept on prickling.

Dwalin too seemed to sense it, the feeling of eyes watching them, as he gripped hold of his axes tighter and slept with them closer.

Even the Mahal cursed Halfling kept looking over his shoulder!

“Over there. By the trees.” Balin murmured, his sharp eyes fixed on that point.

They had reached the foot of the mountain just that day and seeing as it was early evening Thorin called a halt; they could begin climbing in the morning.

Thorin looked but he couldn’t spot anything out of place. There were three trees, next to one another, a shadow and a few boulders.

Wait-

The shadow wasn’t one cast by the trees, not in this light at least.

“I see. You know what it is?” Thorin murmured, you could never be too careful. Balin gave a minute shake of his head in the negative.

“Whatever it is, it’s about man size.”

“You think one of the _elves_ ,” Thorin spat out the word. “Followed us?”

“I’m not sure...I’d say one of the elves followed him.” Balin gave a nod to the smallest of their group.

“The Halfling.” Thorin sighed resisting the urge to either smash his head against the mountain slope or smash the Halfling’s head.

Balin shrugged.

“Well, it does explain the odd things around camp. I do know nobody left Rivendell with an elvish cloak.”

Thorin cursed.

“They seem to just want to keep an eye on the lad, that’s all. It doesn’t seem anything to worry about.” Balin attempted to sooth the growing ire of his king.

“Maybe. But it might not stay that way. What if they betray our location to others? Or tell people of our quest? I do not trust any of those weed-eaters.”

Balin sighed.

“I doubt the elf means any harm. Do you know what the lad is called in Rivendell?” Balin didn’t wait for an answer. Or, perhaps more precisely, he didn’t wait for Thorin to interrupt saying he couldn’t care less about the Halfling.

“He is Lord Elrond’s son. By adoption not birth and that is all the more powerful, in a way, despite the lack of blood connection.”

Thorin glowered at the sky. Great. More headaches. More _elves_. Stupid Halfling.

“I do not want an elf following us around.” Thorin stated.

Those were to be famous last words and Thorin wished he could retract them just to starve away the even bigger headache he was given later.

Balin walked over to the shadow, followed by Dwalin who was not so discretely running a hand along his axes.

The elf stepped into view after about five minutes of Balin talking to him and immediately the Halfling rushed over, face gleeful but not surprised.

Not surprised.

The Mahal cursed Halfling. Thorin fought with the urge to wring his neck.

About an hour later (and explanations for the rest of the Company) Balin returned, the elf sitting next to the Halfling and talking.

Balin sighed when he saw Thorin.

“The elf has agreed that come morning he will not follow us.” Balin murmured as if pained.

Thorin grimaced. It was not perfect, that meant the elf would stay the night, but it was better than the elf following them all the way to Erebor.

He ignored the small corner of the camp that the Halfling and elf were situated in with the stubbornness dwarves were known for.

He expected the elf to leave in the morning, hopefully along with the Halfling.

So he was surprised when the elf walked ahead of them and carried on up the mountain, the Halfling trotting behind, casting odd glances back at The Company.

Balin looked at him with a grim sort of humour.

“I told you he said he wouldn’t follow us. He said nothing about not leading us.”

Thorin growled out several choice words in Khuzdûl that would have had his sister shoving soap in his mouth. Literally.

And that was how Glorfindel (an _elf_ ) joined the quest to reclaim their homeland.

 

#

 

Thorin surged out of the barrel the moment he could and almost flopped onto the dry land. Almost.

Instead he helped Fili out of his barrel; Fili looked alarmingly green and kept muttering something about apples.

Thorin was grateful to Bilbo for getting them out of the prison in Mirkwood but next time they would hash out a better plan.

Barrels. Thorin would be happy if he never saw a barrel again.

Speaking of their burglar...

Thorin looked round for him only to see him standing to the side wrapped up in Glorfindel’s cloak, teeth chattering, lips blue and looking like a drowned rat. 

The hobbit was practically shaking with the cold, watching with wide eyes as Glorfindel used his tunic to dry the lad’s hair.

Thorin blinked.

Usually Glorfindel didn’t actually coddle Bilbo; he had laughed (not unkindly) when Bilbo tripped over and not fussed much after the Azog meeting.

The only time he really fussed was at the very beginning when he gave Bilbo his spare cloak.

The rest of the time he seemed to trust that Bilbo would be alright.

“That was foolish.” Glorfindel reprimanded. “You should have at least got in a barrel yourself. I could have shoved you in one!”

Bilbo twisted out of Glorfindel’s grip.

“I’m not a child Glorfindel!” He exclaimed. Glorfindel merely frowned.

“No but neither are you an adult.”

You could have heard a pin drop as the company stared. 

“You behaved foolishly. You are prone to catching chills and yet you willingly dumped yourself in freezing water. It is not a weakness to need to be a little warmer; it is just something you need to account into your plans. If your shield partner is a little taller then you adjust for that. Same principal.” 

Thorin stared. That was probably the most the elf had spoken in one for the entire trip.

Apart from at Beorn’s. The bear-man seemed to be rather racially prejudiced. He did not like dwarves but almost fawned over Glorfindel and Bilbo. 

At least in Mirkwood Glorfindel seemed to be disliked nearly on par with the dwarves.

“How-” Balin’s voice wavered slightly and he coughed to clear his throat. “How old are you lad?” He asked Bilbo once it seemed Glorfindel was done chastising him.

“Hmmm? Oh, about twenty-five.” Bilbo forced out between chattering teeth.

Thorin sucked in a breath, that was- they had brought a babe into battle.

There was definitely a special place reserved for him in Mahal’s dungeons. 

“Ah, um I don’t know how long it takes hobbits to age...perhaps if you convert it to the equivalent age of a man?” Balin asked.

Bilbo frowned in thought, teeth still chattering and lips still blue. That was mildly worrying.

“About 16 years. Although I think we might have missed my birthday so I could be 26...”

“No, it’s in four days.” Glorfindel interjected, checking Bilbo’s forehead with the back of his hand.

“I hope we reach Lake Town soon.” Glorfindel murmured.

“Why?” Kili asked curiously as he wrung out his jacket, checking his quiver and bow.

“Because Bilbo’s ill.” Glorfindel muttered darkly.

“I’m fine.” Bilbo protested. Then promptly started hacking up a lung. Yeah...fine.

The coughing fit was eventually over and the hobbit fine but Glorfindel looked horrified.

“Um...Glorfindel, are you alright?” Kili asked for once not calling him the nickname he had coined.

The look of horror slowly (far too slowly) drifted from the elf’s face. He didn’t answer.

“No blood?” He questioned Bilbo, hands twitching by his sides.

Bilbo sneezed.

“D-do. I’m dot my modder.” 

Strangely enough Glorfindel’s face seemed to both relax and tighten at that.

Thorin was still stuck on the fact they had brought a child along with them. Even Kili wasn’t that young!

Oin had looked over their burglar and pronounced him fine apart from a nasty cold and a slightly congested chest. Nothing some rest and warmth wouldn’t cure.

Unfortunately that could only be found after two days walking. A time which was utterly miserable for their burglar who spent all of it shivering.

Glorfindel spent the two day trek to Lake Town watching Bilbo and saying little. By the end he was supporting some of the hobbit’s weight while Bilbo spent most of his time sneezing.

Every time he coughed Glorfindel regained the expression of a startled rabbit in the sights of a hunter.

When they reached Lake Town, a poor parody of what Dale had once been, Thorin was glad for the respite. And the actual beds to sleep in.

While most of the dwarves made merry, Glorfindel remained with Bilbo, never leaving his side as he slept in the man sized bed that was comically much too large for him.

Bilbo was fine once the fever passed and welcomed distractions from his bed rest when the dwarves visited in turn.

Glorfindel only relaxed once the cough left for good.

 

#

 

Bilbo glanced over at the hoards of orcs advancing on them. He schooled his breathing so as not to start hyperventilating.

This was so much...more than he had been expecting. And not in a good way. It was bigger than a quest to reclaim a home. Bigger than he had envisioned.

And far, far worse.

He was standing near to Thranduil and his elves; dressed in the Mithril shirt Thorin had gifted him before he was overcome with gold-madness. Glorfindel was standing at his side, standing in a deceptively casual stance.

The gut wrenching terror of impending doom never made its way into the stories of old and Bilbo knew he wasn’t the only one sick with fear. Even Glorfindel looked afraid.

He snuck a look to the mountain, where his friends, thirteen dwarves were sequestered. He hoped they would stay safe but he doubted it.

Even enthralled in gold lust his dwarves wouldn’t miss a battle. Especially against orcs.

Bilbo shifted his bow and arrows slung over his shoulder. Glorfindel had found him a small sword, in the treasury in Erebor, and given it to him despite his inability to wield one. It looked small when Glorfindel held it but felt heavy when he tried to swing it.

He still had his knives, thankfully, but a few small throwing knives weren’t going to last long in a battle...and unless aimed expertly they wouldn’t even kill an orc.

“Thank you Glorfindel.” Bilbo murmured notching his bow.

It went unsaid what Bilbo was thanking him for, everything.

“No, thank _you_ , Bilbo Baggins.” Glorfindel returned with a smile that reached his eyes. Bilbo drew back the string of his bow along with all the other archers standing around.

A hand gripped his shoulder and squeezed comfortingly.

“This is not goodbye.” 

And that was the last thing Glorfindel said to him before the battle truly began.

**Author's Note:**

> An adult human can die from eating 2-5 berries from a belladonna plant; BB is a child and a hobbit. It would take less.
> 
> Honey is a natural antiseptic and has been used as such for thousands of years.
> 
> Mouldy bread is an antibiotic -the mould- and so also helps against infections and has been used since before the Ancient Greek period in time.
> 
> Goes by the first film and the book. Ignores the Desolation of Smaug.
> 
>  
> 
> _Prompt (that I don't own either):_
> 
>  
> 
> _-AU in which Bilbo's father is killed by another hobbit before Bilbo is born (maybe because Bungo has money or maybe they're Sackville-Bagginses and want Bag-End). That hobbit is well respected and everyone love them._  
>  There is no proof that hobbit killed Bungo but Belladonna know they did it nonetheless and in a fit of rage she attack them verbally in front of witnesses just after Bungo's death and while everyone is shocked they think it's just the grief overtaking her. She start doubting herself believing that maybe she's just grieving until that hobbit start taunting her when they are alone. One day she snaps and slap them just as another hobbit enter the room, the killer!hobbit act shocked and confused while Belladonna is too upset to explain herself and just run.  
> People starts to talk behind her back, saying she lost her mind and that it's not a surprise things turned for the worse after the Baggins she was married to couldn't be here to keep the Took in leash anymore.  
> Then when the hobbit who murdered her husband has the balls to come to his funeral, Belladonna loses it and attack them physically nearly killing them.  
> The killer!hobbit immediately play the victim and act as if they were traumatized and really scared that she would try something else.  
> Belladonna is chased away from the Shire and her home. The Took doesn't believe her when she tell them who the killer is, instead they are concerned and treat like she's going to fly into a rage whenever. One day, they try to forcefully hospitalize her in the equivalent of an Asylum so she decide to leave in the night.  
> She remember when one day Gandalf told her about Rivendell and his friend Lord Elrond and decide to go there. On the road, she realize that she is pregnant, but at that point she's in the middle of nowhere and she can do nothing but go on. When she arrive in Rivendell, she's hurt and ill. Lord Elrond invite her to live there, and even send some elves to go seek Gandalf fearing Belladonna would not survive long. She does survives her pregnancy and has Bilbo but she say sick and dies when he is 10. Bilbo is then raised by elves (Lord Elrond ? Galdriel ? Some random elves ?)  
> Years later, Gandalf comes to Rivendell to take Bilbo on a adventure ...  
> How does everything changes with Bilbo not being raised in the Shire ?  
> Maybe Bilbo still try to be respectable because of the way his mother talked about Bungo Baggins. Maybe he still isn't a warrior or a thief but he is really good at sneaking because to sneak past his adopted brother/sister elf to have some calm you need to be a master. Maybe he still refuse Gandalf's offer because he has always been cherished by everyone since the elves still remember poor Belladonna and how fragile she was (not having met her before she fell ill).  
> Thorin is probably even more of an ass because Bilbo has been raised by elves and the rest of the dwarves are rather distrustful...
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _In the LoTR it is mentioned that Ori tends to write in Sindarin more than anything else._
> 
>  
> 
> _Glorfindel is wearing a cloak from Lothlórien, that is why he isn’t spotted for a while when he follows them out of Rivendell._


End file.
